Curiosity Satisfied the Cat
by Embracing Madness
Summary: A mysterious new school. A whole new world. A life-changing decision. Harry would do well to be cautious. But, well, he's bored. And curious. And a curious Harry never bodes well.


Disclaimer: _Harry Potter and all the copyrights associated to it belongs to J.K Rowling__, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Inc., Warner Bros., and any other entities involved. Only the ideas contained within this story are the property of the author. No profit is being earned by the writer of this story._

There was a thick yellow envelope half-stuffed into Harry's mail slot.

Harry, still bleary from celebrating his birthday party the night before, just stood there and blinked at it. Hungover as he was, it was taking some time for the thought which was nudging itself insistently at his alcohol-percolated brain to register properly.

Not that he _really _had a hangover, mind. With a friend like Hermione organizing the party, Harry could be sure that getting properly drunk was out of the question. _Butterbeer just isn't the same, _thought Harry mournfully, as he took one step in the general direction of his door.

He promptly had to revise his previous thought when his legs wobble-danced beneath him.

Okay, maybe he _did _have a hangover.

Just a little one though. Either that or one of the Jelly-Legs jinxes which that crazed, trespassing blonde fangirl shot at him had a time-delayed feature.

Yea. Yea that sounded better, though it was frightening to think that a witch rabid enough to use such caveman tactics to snare the Boy-Who-Lived into a date would be powerful enough to cast time-delayed spells.

But.

Nonetheless.

The witch was probably to blame. Not the firewhiskey that the twins had sneaked in. All rumors of him being a lightweight were _completely _unsubstantiated, after all.

_Daily Prophet_ pictures notwithstanding.

So. Yea. Back to the envelope. And the thought which had progressed from nudging, to shoving, to all-out hammering, finally scrambled in. Harry had the dim impression that the thought had fired an admonishing, "Well really!" at him in a suspiciously Hermione-like voice as it entered, but. Well. Alcohol-percolated brains were apparently incapable of studying more than one thought at a time. At least, Harry's was. And currently, Harry's brain was occupied with turning over what the thought had said.

_There are too many wizards in Britain._

That thought progressed to another one.

_And they all want to write to me._

And another.

_And they keep on finding sneaky ways to bypass the wards to send me letters._

And another.

_Practically buried my apartment in letters on Harry Potter Day._

And the last.

_So I blocked my entire apartment from mail a week before my birthday._

Ergo...

_That yellow parchment envelope should not be there._

Harry blinked. Stared. Considered. The last time he'd opened a letter without letting other people scan it, he'd been poisoned half to death by the vengeful sender. Because, let's face it. Point Harry in the direction of a threat, and he'd attack. Ask him to scan the threat first before attacking, and he'd call for Hermione. Which seemed like his best option currently.

On the other hand, the last few times particularly persistent mail _had _bypassed his wards and he'd called Hermione, she'd called the Aurors, pointing out that they had more field experience than she did with dangerous items. Harry didn't believe that for a second, but, well, that was Hermione for you.

And when the Aurors _had _scanned his letters? He'd been embarrassed half to death when they'd found them to be nothing more than flowery love letters from amorous witches. _Powerful_ amorous witches, one of which hadn't taken it kindly when a blabbermouth Auror had sent a copy of her declarations of passion to the newspapers. Harry was still trying to avoid that particular enraged witch at the Ministry parties.

So. Death by poison, or death by embarrassment.

Hmm.

Ah hell. Such drastic decisions should be made after he'd woken up a bit more. Turning around, Harry tottered towards his kitchen.

Or at least, he _did_, until a high-pitched whine behind him stopped him in his tracks. Turning around again – and that was altogether too many turns in the morning for Harry to tolerate – he beheld...Snuffles.

His five-month-old black dog.

Had apparently been hiding somewhere close by, and had taken advantage of Harry's inattention the moment his back was turned. Tottering precariously along the edge of a side table in much the same way as Harry had been doing – but Snuffles was much cuter at tottering, of course – he was pawing at the suspicious envelope with all the enthusiasm of a drunken Romilda Vane who'd mistaken a particularly realistic bust of Harry Potter for the real deal in the last victory celebration party. Not that Harry had anything to do with spiking her drink, mind you. Really, he couldn't be expected to know what Ginny was up to _all _the time, especially now that they'd broken up.

But. Again. Snuffles. Envelope. _Bad._

Letting out a belated cry of alarm, Harry lunged for the puppy. Miscalculated his lunge. Caught his hand on the envelope instead. Caught his _foot _on the side table. Dropped down like a stone, side table, puppy, envelope and all.

Lying there for a moment, Harry stared bug-eyed at the letter which had automatically unfolded at his touch. As it had fluttered down to land on his face, he could barely make out the large, flashy heading.

_Welcome to the Crayle Institution of Magic._

"Huh," he finally said aloud to himself, squirming puppy in hand. "Guess it wasn't poisoned after all."


End file.
